Reincarnation - Second Chance
by S and K Scrawlings
Summary: This story will follow our protagonist through he Second Chance at life seeing new faces and old: to him and to us. Not that he knows it... Mystery, adventure, sorrow and comfort await his roller-coaster of journey ahead: so join me throughout it. All rights to their respective owners of the Witcher 3 and all of it's characters. Story by S and K Scrawlings - KTillBillie
1. Chapter 1 - So Very, Very Cold

**_Welcome to the world created by Andrzej Sapkowski and the story created by me. This story will in future contain graphic language and scenes of adult nature so viewer discretion is advised. Please drop comments and favs so i know i'm doing alright and also note that others may also upload on this account, our names will be in the story description so keep an eye out for me "KTillBillie". I hope you all enjoy and follow me on this journey I hope to create. This is my first story ever so constructive criticism is appreciated :)_**

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 **Chapter 1 – So Very, Very Cold.**

 _"_ _Cold. So very, very cold. Why do I feel like this? Am I ok? Who am I? Who are they?"_ All these questions circle his head, filling him, giving him things to preoccupy himself with. Not that he needs it, time has no meaning to him. " _Where am I? Goddammit I must stop asking these stupid questions, what does it matter? Why should I care?"_ It's been like this forever and no time at all. Drifting as an almost lucid dream around this stony chamber. Explorers come and explorers are then killed and have their bones picked free from any flesh by the same creature that lay him in this now forgotten tomb. _"why must I remain here?"_ he asks himself pondering the status of his own, questionable, state of being. _"TOO MANY QUESTIONS!"_

 _"_ _As much as I love to lose myself in my thoughts and often find it a way to waste hours at a time…"_ his ocean of a mind pondered, ripping his current of thought from his thoughts to the pressing matter of the group of 5, seemingly professional looking hooded and masked men trickling on in. light-footed and well-armed, one carrying a hefty metal cage under one arm, the other 4 carrying various one handed weapons. One held a long bladed staff with a scythe like blade and within it a swimming blue gem containing a flowing energy; the first man wore light armour with chain mail looking as if it were made of the finest steel from wherever this was to the plains only walked by the ones of elder blood. The second was draped in heavy and thick plates, carrying a huge war-hammer he could somehow wield with only his right arm. The third was in an almost skin-tight full-body snakeskin like attire. Snakeskin that grew baggy in long lines across various points, perhaps scars, along his body. His weapon sucked in his attention like a whirlpool: it ran across the length of his arm as he gripped it in his right hand, it's blade faced away from his arm in a long curve, as if to use it he would have to strike with his elbow and punch across his body to cut any significant wound. The final man, as he turned revealed to have no weapon at all, but instead carried some sort of pouch on his waste which, even to the vapour-like spirit in his most certainly non-physical state, seemed to _feel_ as if it excreted power unknown to any.

The armed group held their blades ready and flanked the room, covering the one with a curved blade, like a ring of fire: creeping in on its victim, keeping their senses sharp as the fifth walked right up to a corner in the room and began to murmur inaudible things beneath their breath. Even without any noticeable forms of hearing the spirit felt a simmer of uneasiness roll over me. " _What is he doing?_ Wait, I HEAR it! I can hear!"

" _Return to us what was taken so quickly, so suddenly and so unjustly, return unto us our property lest it slip into worlds unknown."_ Something about those words sent a raging flame into the spirits _body_.

"I AM NO MANS PROPERTY" he blazed out, rising before him and laying a strong fist across their right cheek. A burn in his head started to kindle itself: causing a flare of pain to shoot down his spine: melting his legs free and allowing him to erupt into a flurry of movement.

Things began to happen quickly. The hood of the one who uttered the incantation flew back revealing the face of a hardened women with a trickle of crimson streaming from where he had hit her. A roar echoed from the back of the cave startling everyone and allowing the newly revived and already 'self-preservation focused' _boy_ to rip the curved blade from her hand and with a backward shunt of his elbow dive it deep up into the woman's rib cage from her stomach and bring her close enough to stare into the stinging yellow eyes of the once spirit. Allowing him to stare right back at her deep blue ones. Blue like the tears that now mixed with blood. Blue as the light that could be seen from their entry point in the wall. Eyes not angry but sad, sad that he had done that, sad that this was the end, sad that he never herd what she said as she was dropped to floor and trampled by the terrified boy who ran at full speed past the still stunned, now 4, men staring down the screaming Bruxa.

Sunlight kissed his lips for the first time in longer than he could remember; wind ruffled his mahogany hair, chilling his muscularly built, 20-year-old body, one which felt _as if_ it hadn't been used in years but continued growing, drawing from some unknown energy. Those radiant beams of sun warmed every ounce of his insides to the point where he felt he had not been sprinting from the pursuers he knew would follow: after dealing with the screaming Bruxa that still nibbled on his ringing ears. A salty, bitter and cool ocean air gave a tingling to his tongue and allowed him to become misted over by the sensation of taste so nostalgic to his light pink lips. A smell of blood lead him back into reality and pushed him onward warning him of the danger, he knew not of the details. Run. That's all he knew. So: that's what he did, he picked a direction and with light foot so he wasn't followed, he ran. He chose his direction and began on, anew, more or less prepared for what his fate may bring him.

With his heel turned and mind set he strayed away from the maw of his undoing and rest for all those years and he let slip from his mind the fate that he had left the four others to deal with, a fate they handled with impressive expertise. From the beast of misfortune that swallowed his body now emerged 4, slightly shaken and well built warriors ready to avenge the death of the fallen comrade they let out to sea and burnt with arrows. A funeral for a queen here on Skellige. An end to one story so one could begin anew and fill the world with terrors and glories that she had in her past. A past that would not: get a _Second Chance._

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 _ **This is the beginning of my first series which i have yet to name at the time of writing this but I know this is the first book: Second Chance and will follow our mysterious character along a journey where he'll see new and old faces to him and us. Feel free to text me any theories you have as i love to plant in mysteries :P My official kik for S and K Scrawlings is S-and-K Scrawlings (SKScrawlings-User). I'd love to keep connected with you guys Updates won't be regular though due to school work :(**_


	2. Chapter 2 - New and Uncertain Paths?

**_Hey sorry this one is so late it took me and my editor a while to comb through it as we've both had stuff on. Chapter 3 is well into construction and should be out waaaay sooner than this one was. I've put in a few answers to some questions but a lot of the big ones remain, some you might even have to piece together throughout the story :). Once more constructive criticism is appreciated and my messenger details are in my account so HMU if you have theories, advice or just want to talk. Enjoy the chapter, KTillBillie._**

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 **Chapter 2 – New and Uncertain Paths?**

The sun was still hovering moderately high on the horizon, begrudgingly sprinkling what little heat kept him from freezing to death in the chilling winds sweeping the rocky and rolling terrain. Regardless he trudged lightly on, looking for some form of shelter or warmth for the night, which was crawling closer in with each movement he made. He had been making his lumbering way towards what looked like a felled Fiend on a mound atop a hill; a Fiend's blood had tainted the air, spreading it's scent far and wide. He had smelt it the second he had surmounted the hill covering what he decided to dub: 'The Screaming Cave'.

By the time he had reached the final climb of the ridge the sun had dwindled midway below the glowing horizon and the blazing stench of the Fiend had begun to worry him. Ghouls and other various necrophages are drawn to a corpse and with naught but a curved steel blade he had little to no practise with he didn't fancy his odds. An inferno of stench almost blew him back as he grew closer to the row boat sized corpse. Despite this he drew closer and began to search for a point to begin skinning; the Fiend had but a stump remaining for a head, a flicker of crimson trickled and spat from the still fresh but festering wound. " _The work of the company no doubt_ " he thought judging the age of the wound and their arrival and finding that they seemed to match up. "Oh well, it's a start…" he spoke aloud and plunged the blade into the stump beginning to skin a cloak - made from fabric known for its incredible heating properties - Fiend fur. Each cut was met with a jet of blood and simmer of fumes, no doubt reeling in what little necrophages hadn't already caught wind of the _alluring_ aroma. A mere few moments later he stood back admiring his new, smelly, but warm cloak to put the spring back in his stride. Almost immediately after he briskly left the bottom of the hill he heard the howl of Ghouls and hiss of Foglets attempting to gain control over the 'fresh' meal left out and skinned of all the irritating fur.

Swiftly, but still minding his footing, he wandered on towards the pulsating glow and silhouette of what, without mistaking, was a small fishing village.

As dusk turned to night the final embers of the burning boat carried their lost co-worker, lackey and friend back into nature where her body would once more be joined with mother nature. Behind a jagged and dented visor a grunt of acknowledgement could be heard: a final farewell from a stoic acquaintance. "Any tracks?" growled a rugged voice from beneath the helm.

"Nuffing..." replied a more shrill and mocking voice, throwing back his hood to reveal a rather small but pointed complexion with a small scar on the left of his nose and chip on his back right molar and incisor giving a whistle to many of his improper wordings. He had a slender and lanky form allowing him to be quick and give surprising reach to his bladed pole he loved dearer than even the now lifeless body drifting to the ocean floor to be devoured by Drowners and Ekhidnas.

"Of course there's nothing!" a woman spoke up with a raised voice, her pouch at her side still vibrating. "This isn't just any old man-hunt: this is _the_ Man-Hunt…" she lowered her voice to an ominous singular-tone "He may not know it but this is the most important hunt we'll ever have on our hands, that's why we brought her along." She shunted her head to the still smouldering ruins " _She_ knew him, _she_ said we could do this differently. And god-damn-it I believed her!" she began to ramble with an ever-increasing voice.

"Shut it." came a strong and enunciated Koverian voice, drawing attention to his kneeling form atop his small dimeritium cage. His flowing robes stretched to the bottom of his cage and further across the ground: it was parted, revealing an assortment of small throwing-knives coating the insides. "He _is_ indeed dangerous but he's worth it alive." The strong voice attempted to finalise before being countered yet again by the distraught slender woman.

"You didn't know Shn like I did…" she murmured, realising what she had said the second it left her lips.

"Do not lecture me on how close you were to Shn'cro, Amar. You tread a perilous path as it is attempting to convince a group of people to murder an old friend to some and sizeable profit to the others" he added looking at the slang talking Nacraz and heavily armoured Zarcan brothers. "He is to be kept alive, for all our sake. That man could very well be our last chance after we buggered the first one all those years ago" he shot to Amar, now sulking in the corner, muttering curses to herself after her improper outburst.

The howls of necrophages filled the air and Cht'kra sniffed. "The air is thick, we will travel at mid-day tomorrow, that will be ample time for you to get our convoy on it's way back to Vizima, am I correct?" he questioned, still sternly towards the now silent sorceress; Cht'kra was met with a nod from Amar, giving him sufficient information as to their new destination and goal. "Our job has just become a whole lot harder," he addressed the group, "We will return and report lest our employer become restless… I heard ever since that Djinn released it's hold on her, that heart was as black as the hair she waves so incessantly" he finished more to himself than anyone else, none the less earning a disgruntled and distasteful look from Amar. "Rest now. Have a long day ahead, you'll need the lie-in we'll have." So rest they did; the smell of bloods mixed and dampened the air: Fiend, Bruxa and the blood of new conflict masked by the boiled gore of a friend fallen to tragedy yet to be unmasked by most.

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 _ **BOOM. Names and possible**_ _ **agendas**_ _ **appearing here! I think many of you can guess the employer at this point but what are their significance and how do they know him? All will be answered in later chapters and**_ _ **may be**_ _ **even stories to come, throughout this chapter i was planning out the meeting of a certain pair of characters who will no doubt throw some shit at the fan later on. Hope you all**_ _ **enjoyed**_ _ **and like the OC's that are in here (have fun learning their names) they all have their own backstory but some are more important than others as you can imagine from what they were saying. I can't wait for the next chapter to be out and i hope all of you can't either. Updating soon - KTillBillie.**_


	3. Chapter 3 - Old Faces

_**Sorry for the wait there were some issues in the editing which delayed the upload. In this one we've got some old faces peaking out (no shit), but not completely clearly. Some of you can guess who it is depending on what ending(s) you got in the game and i ask don't spoil it for anyone else. Here is where my canon for the Witcher 3 starts to show, i know all of you probably got different ones so don't argue, this is what it's going off as it was my personal favourite ending that i got. Blood and Wine and Hearts of Stone I'm still deciding whether to include or not as i have yet to complete either of them. Hope you enjoy the new chapter, constructive criticism and theories welcome on my kik (in profile desc.) and the reviews.**_

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 **Chapter 3 – Old Faces**

Bustle and brash exchanging of words torrented throughout the centre of the sparsely illuminated town centre which a certain Fiend-cloaked individual weaved his way through, stirring not even the soil on which the footprints of excited children had compacted vigorously. Curiously, he poked his head over the smaller than average farmer, suddenly swaying with nausea at the sight that his eyes beheld. Waves of fresh and sticky gore dribbled from the dangling entrails trickling behind the fishnet-held maw of none other than a Fiend. The gore didn't so much as ripple his stomach but the fact that the head of the beast that must've been killed by his would-be captors was in front of him along with its cloaked killer hit him like a tsunami: knocking his breath and drowning him in a paralysing apprehension. Speech drifted him from his raging mind, cursing himself and wondering how the bastards overtook him without him noticing. "I'll accept 200, no more," The deal was finalised with a respectful murmur from the crowd "it was but a youngster and didn't take much to bring down." They continued earning a sweep of awe from the many little ones sweeping around his knees.

A small flash and whistle of a _shing_ that not even the ears of the White Wolf himself could have picked up on resounded along the curved blade that ran down a cloaked silhouette's arm, slicing a small pouch of coin from the horse and pricking the smallest hole in a bag of grain, small enough to let one grain drop every second. With coin acquired he retreated towards the shadows as the hooded Fiend-slayer mounted that very same horse and took off into the night, still dusted by the flicker of a dying sun on the peaks of the rocky terrain that littered the island. Inconspicuously he made his way towards the inn near the noticeboard in search of a bed for the night and perhaps a keg or two of mead to go with it. "Welcome to our humble inn! how may I…" an enthusiastic innkeeper attempted to greet him. He was met with a swift slur of "Mead and bed. That order too." cutting him off and temporarily levelling his enthusiasm, which shorty sprung back off as if it were a shadow

wavering under an unsteady flame. "But of course good sir! Take a seat! Drink, blabber and by all means partake in some of our competitions downstairs… Winner of each gets everything on the house." He added, grabbing the relatively poor persons' interest suddenly.

"I'll be right back…" he responded, beelining towards the open cellar hatch.

Below was alive with bustle and shouts, in the room downstairs dice poker was out, Gwent cards were laying on the table, strong men arm-wrestled and brawled for bets while the host and hostess struggled to bring drink and food to fuel the merriment. A free table resided beside the brawl ring which he took a seat at. Not even a second passed and he found out why that seat was not taken: the bulk of a very large and significantly bloodied brawler was thrust onto his table, flipping him upside-down in the process. "Clumsy Whoreson…" he muttered, climbing back up despite the dead weight over him.

"WA'D YOO SAY!"

"Shit." Before him stood a towering wall comprised of rage and meat, threatening to tumble down upon his semi-upright form.

 _"_ _Well you've got yourself into this, no backing out now…"_ "I sai N" enunciating each letter with a pull closer towards the nose of his towering opponent. The desired effect was gained and in an instant the fight was in full barrage. Fists like boulders from catapults – hurled with destructive intent; legs like turrets in a castle – holding fast and sturdy, yet unmoving; eyes a spyglass – gazing through his own and into the unease that lurked in his chest. Their focus was locked on one another as blows were exchanged, he relied on footwork and quick jabs rather than his opponent, airing on the side of standing as stiff as a drawbridge waiting to be broken down and preferring heavy and slow blows directed at his head.

The mountainous man stood in what became the centre of their brawl, as in an ever-decreasing radius around him, the now de-cloaked contestant dodged, weaved and deflected blows – brushing their force aside with a twirl or light strike to the side of his wrist during the strike. Spotting a weakness and growing impatient with the, undoubtedly slowing but still, highly functioning brute; the smaller but still competent man caught the next punch and allowed it's momentum to channel through the gap in between his hands he then coiled the upper fore-arm of his opponent. Directing that momentum allowed him to force his opponent to stumble down, adding to the tremendous blow he surgically administered with his right knee. The blow was sloppy but effective: the impact to the side of the man's forehead left him unconscious with an already swelling bruise as a reminder. On the other hand, however, the thick skull of the falling goliath had caused a worrying unnatural popping sound followed by a shot of pain to flow through his knee-cap. Dropping to his knee he began to move and ensure the cap was properly positioned before laying a atop it with considerable power, ringing the bell for the end of the brawl with a resounding crunch.

Upon raising his head and looking around, ignoring the now light beat of pain from his lower right leg, he saw mouths open and awe stricken people looking dejectedly at the bowl labelled 'bets'. "A round! To the winner." proclaimed a gruff man snatching up the bowl triumphantly and adding "It's on me" before taking a hearty swig from his keg.

"Share a round my boy?" asked one of the men, breaking the rest from a trance.

"Set down o'er 'ere!" offered another.

"Man with metal like that deserves to fight fer us! No matter where he from!" one man began to chide.

"Shut yer yap Larkvig. No foreigner could serve and live under the banners of Skellige. Ya need to be bred, forged an hardened in these isles to 'ave half a chance!" retorted another, triggering a murmur amongst the crowd.

"Send 'im to Kaer Trolde! Queen Cerys will judge him an' if not, 'er brother can judge a warrior just by the way he holds a pose. They'll make out whether he's worthy or not Gyall." Countered the other man earning a cheer from the crowd behind the fight. Their merriment continued as some of the natives examined his blade and offered ways to improve it at their various smiths. This continued until the trap door crashed open and a slender form swept into the room, extinguishing any arguments and chilling the occupants to the bone.

"Who thought it was a good idea to steal from a Witcher?"

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 _ **Ooooooo. Who could it be ;) Hope you all enjoyed the chapter, I'll get started with the next one ASAP and since i break for** **Christmas now i should have a fair few up over the rest of Christmas and New Years.** **I'm hoping 3 over the course of that time. Over those three** **a lot** **of big info bombs are going to be dropped including the whereabouts and other things for Cht'Kra and his crew... Mabey even why they were 'employed' by a certain '** **black hearted** **sorceress'.** **Hope you all look forward to it, see you soon - KTillBillie :)**_


	4. Chapter 4 - The Worn Path

**Hey, sorry for the wait, this one was long in the editing and it won't be this long between chapters. I'm trying to make them longer now as well. Hope you enjoy the read, we're beginning to look into the pasts of some of our characters now: pasts that will later entangle into one long and** **immersive** **story (i hope). Sorry again for the wait, enjoy. :D**

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 **Chapter 4 – The Worn Path**

A squeak resounded; the trot of horses clapped; rain trickled through the leather roof; Nacraz and Zarcan laid into Amar for her failure to conjure a portal to the correct place: in Vizima; Cht'kra herd all the squabbles and drawls behind him as he slapped the reins onward in hopes of escaping The Mire in southern Tameria for the more familiar lands of Nilfgaard: which they called home for some time now. The horse that pulled their cart lumbered on at an acceptable pace, considering that it pulled a group of 4 mercenaries, one of which was a sorcerer and her damnable 'travel kit': which seemed more like a migration kit to the others. Cht'kra allowed himself to float free of all of their petty squabbles and allow himself to take in the marsh that surrounded them: sparse trees somehow managed to haze out vision while a dingy fog listed below waist height, flaring up in protest whenever a sprinkle of rain could trickle it's way down the lounging lanais, reminding him of all the lazy hours he used to spend amongst friends. _"One day those days will come again. The fog that people fear to explore will fade from the sun of a new dawn and those you lost within it will find themselves stood next to one another again"_ he remembered the words that he told himself through each and every day, barring no morning, without exception each night he collapsed of exhaustion envying his past self for the hours he could waste with the ones he held dear. _"This path is long, I am beginning to fear we shan't see the exit lest we look back at the tracks we left behind"_ his mind interjected his trailing thoughts with what he considered to be an admirably poetic parenthesis.

In the back of the cart the squabble subsided, resulting in Nacraz and Zarcan removing themselves from the positively squirming with rage sorceress. Despite their frequent indignation towards her they still never hesitated to use and misuse the trinket she provided them: two weakly linked bracelets amplified by the shared blood within them allowed for a short range telepathic field, or to put it in words for them to understand: _"you can talk in your heads without speaking out loud…"_ recalled Zarcan,

 _"…_ _So maybe you can give us all some damn peace and quiet…"_ rang the muddled and erratic thoughts of his brother Nacraz in response.

 _"…_ _You pair of semi-literate buffoons!"_ finished his brother with a visible chuckle, rattling the chain-mail he still wore, clinking against the armour that lay neatly next to him. This scene was quite the opposite to the gaggle of clatter and clutter that could be seen in the corner next to Zarcan's. His nimble brother had begun to build himself a fort of his possessions, or what he called an 'impenetrable-fortress-that-no-words-of-an-apprentice-could-destroy', after which he was told that he was being childish… which was subsequently drowned out by taunts of "sticks and stones may break my bones but **words** can never hurt me!" repeatedly until Amar had accepted defeat and retreated to the corner with her mountains of well-kept and organised possessions where she moped for her short comings in the field of mass teleportation.

From the perspective of Nacraz all that could be seen from within his fort was Amar, tucked away inscribing on parchment provided by their employer, and her teacher. On the other side, however, he could see the stretching road behind them, making him think of his past with Zarcan and his more recent, yet still distant, memories with Cht'kra and his small accompaniment of Amar and Shn'cro…

 ** _(Flashback)_**

 _"_ _You're a damn fool you know that." Scolded his brother as they ducked out of sight beside an outcrop on a roof in the outskirts of Cintra._

 _"_ _I just wann'ed to try some fish," Nacraz began, "stupid bitch wouldn't le'mme so I made the fish try 'er." he murmured proudly to his brother, hearing the crunch of marching guards looking for the infamous pair._

 _"_ _You shoved the fish over her head and she_ _ **choked**_ _to_ _ **death**_ _!" retorted his brother in a harsh whisper, peeking over their protecting barrier._

 _"_ _How'd I have known… She could've breathed out it's arse" he meekly returned trying not to anger his surprisingly level headed brother "it'll be fine, right? We can just keep moving like always right?" he almost begged his brother, all of his previous mistakes and outbursts that caused their frequent relocation and widespread infamy._

 _"_ _There's no-where to go…" replied his brother sorrowfully, slouching down beside Nacraz. "They all know us now, every corner of Cintra looks for our heads, I'm no god brother-of-mine, I can't magically make our mistakes go away. I don't know what we can do, hell if they catch us it won't even be a_ _ **we**_ _, but instead several pieces of US!" Zarcan continued, his head in his hands._

 _"_ _It's always been me an' you tho' brotha, we ain't backing down to nobody, ain't no noble gonna chain us up, ain't no guard gonna cut us down, w-we in this togeth-"he was cut off by a whistling fist of his brother colliding with his mouth sending the metallic taste of blood flow from his lips where his front incisor was, chipping his tooth._

 _"_ _It's always_ _ **been**_ _us but you never find a way to look after_ _ **us**_ _it's always_ _ **me**_ _that must take care of_ _ **you**_ _!" he growled, intensifying each emphasis with a blow to either side of his brothers head, only when he felt the molar on his back right chip did he stop and collapse next to his weeping brother, before also breaking down, unable to look at his battered and bloody body, crying in a heap of his own blood that the one that he could always rely on drew with his bare hands._

 _They lay there like that until the rain came and they fell asleep in it's comforting drizzle._

 _Once they awoke they were in a cell each, having been discovered by a stream of blood washed down by the rain…_

 ** _(End of Flashback)_**

"The past is but a means to move forward…" Zarcan broke the silence, confusing Amar but comforting Nacraz from his own thoughts. "There is no exception amongst us that we have all done evil things. From petty theft to cold blooded murder, we have all tasted the tang of adrenaline that comes with malicious deeds. We have dealt with it in different ways: I let my body channel my regret and self-loathing into strength and physical prowess, Nacraz retreats deep within his mind and stops thinking of this world (something we call insanity), Cht'kra, you have adopted an apathy unrivalled by even the dead, I dread to think on what you were like before. Amar however, you can't seem to deal with it yourself, you coil and writhe into your personal space showing us all how we can make you skin crawl should we please. This is why we win each of our arguments no matter how petty." He lectured to them all but at the same time to no-one in particular.

".. OR IT'S JUST THAT YOU CAN'T WIN AN ARGUMENT WITH A LOOOOOOOOOOONEY!" came a screeching voice from the junk-fort.

Amid the chuckling at Nacraz's highly comedic outburst Amar finally chose to open herself up to someone besides the late Shn'cro: with one sentence, a sentence she held against all people in the damned palace at Vizima, "I choose to be this way because they want me to be more like Cirilla…"

The rain wandered in droplets through his new garments laden upon his shivering form beside the fire, hissing in protest to the unpredictable introduction of moisture. Beneath the thin covering of cloth water listed into his deep scar across from the bottom of his right collar bone to the top left of a jutting-out hip bone: the cold mixed with the heat that drew him closer mixed to give the sensation of someone else's fingers running across it. The feeling was a dull and somehow nostalgic sensation like a distant, but long lost, memory that refused to re-surface. His green eyes reflected the ongoing flames in the 'yellow veins' that graced the moss green irises, now being examined by what he had resigned to as: his captor. Across that fire two eyes vastly similar stared right into his, from beneath a black hood and above a high collar of thick, cured leather and mail the mysterious shimmer of silver wandered over to his gaze.

"Soooo… Where _are_ we going?" he tried to spark conversation.

"Well you're on what we call 'the path' at the minute but after that your Cerys' problem" she responded in a voice he didn't recognise from the cave.

"No shit this is _a path_. So, she's your employer is she, the one who made you barge on into my cave and do whatever it is you did to wake me up… How'd the Bruxa go then, I presume badly as you went from 4 to one."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Wait what," he blurted out "you mean you're not one of the people from the cave?" questions began to spill from his mouth. "You weren't with them? Did you kill the Fiend? Who are you then?" Only a puzzled look from behind heavily shaded eyes answered his questions. "Fucking great," He cursed, setting his head back, "now I'm a thief and I'm hunted for reasons I don't know."

"With who? Yes, I killed the Fiend and I'm known as the 'Ashen-Haired Witcher'. Does that answer all your questions?" retorted the women curtly and royally enunciated.

"I suppose for now…" he replied defeated.

"Now answer some of mine and I might consider not having you jailed for measly theft. Who are _you_? Where did you come from? Who's hunting you and finally: why did you steal from me?" Interrogated the ashen one.

"I don't know. A cave, but beyond that I don't know. I don't know. And oh, let me think… maybe because I don't know anything and need to somehow get back on my feet." He retorted in a similar fashion to her, smirking by the end, having leaned closer with each answer.

"Ok listen: I'm not and never was going to lock you up but I can help you, for a price, but I need you to cooperate if you need help."

"I have nothing so what's the point?" he sulked.

"Then give me what you have, but do not yet know." The Witcher smiled, leaning back as she did so.

"Deal - I'll take what I can get." He agreed.

"Now sleep, we'll make it to Kaer Trolde before midday tomorrow if we leave at first light." She ordered, throwing back her cowl to reveal a smooth face with pinned up ashen hair and deep bright eyes defined by her use of pigments around her eyes. Her skin was fair and well kept, but defiled by scars, one thin and long across her left eye – slanted up to the right, another was but a small chip to the left of her lip and a final one from the left end of her jaw-line to just off to the left of her chin, looking like a very close cut dodge. "Good night… What did you say your name was?"

"I don't know." Came a chuckle from the laying figure under his small outcrop of leather they had propped up. "Good nigh to you too…"

"Cirilla, but those who know me call me Ciri."

"Well then, goodnight Cirilla. May I one day know you as Ciri." He joked and they let the noises of the Skellige wilds lull them to sleep under the sky: blotched by cloud and rain.

* * *

 **...And here we have another chapter done on this road to our answers. What happened to the brothers in jail? Why were they in Cintra? What were these 'better times' Cht continues to muse after. All in due time dear friends. Won't be long for the next chapter, already nearly finished with it. Feel free to rate the new chapter length... PEACE!**


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